and i hold your beating chambers until they beat no more

[evolved]

[ It's just not the time to push his buttons.

Sylar wants to, possibly, strangle Peter - watch him suffocate, close a hand around his throat like a vice and just squeeze until his lips turn blue and his windpipe breaks under the force of his fingers. He's bracing his neck with a forearm, attempting to keep him pinned beneath him to the floor with his weight (which may or may not be effective) and yes, to throttle him, it would feel so very good.

It's a lovely temptation. Pulling away far enough to move his arm, the fingers of his free hand wrap around Peter's neck and at first, his grasp is firm, bruising, but then ... there is suddenly no pressure. He's breathing heavily, absolutely seething, but his grip has slackened enough that now, he's just ... holding. Touching. Feeling Peter's pulse under his fingers and staring down at him like this isn't all kinds of horrible. ]

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[askedtobe]

Sylar. [ The word itself nearly splits Peter in two, the only thing that slips free before Peter's clamping his jaw shut tight, holding onto the potential releasing of the dam of any other words. Peter wants to say that if there's something that's off limits right now it's touching -- Sylar can stare all he wants, but Peter can't take the realization that he wants this, and if he simply spreads the blame around then he won't have to face it. Can point the finger at Sylar and say that 'he did this', that Peter never wanted the steady curl of fingers around his cock, or anything else for that matter.

But he lost the opportunity to make up rules about touching or needing or wanting the second he wanted it just that much more.

Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers scrambling to grab hold of Sylar's shirt as he curls up and forward and buries his face against the other’s neck. As if hiding could possibly change what's happening, what he's allowed to happen, what he can't try to stop. He already knows he's been overtaken, consumed by Sylar's overwhelming presence, and try as he might to pretend this is something else, he's the one lost beneath, losing his mind under the slow, heady grind of Sylar's hips, the other man's breathing a counter-balance to his own and disturbingly loud in his ears.

Peter's pushing his hips into Sylar's fist before he can stop himself, groaning thickly against the warm drumming of Sylar's pulse. He allows himself just one sudden push before he tries to put a stop to it, won't fuck himself in Sylar's fist just on sheer principle alone. Because he might have submitted, might have handed himself over fully, but fury is still pumping through his veins harder than need and he's weighing his desperation and coming up with far too much that Peter just doesn't want Sylar to see.

Except the slide of Sylar's own cock against his thigh sends fire straight to the pit of his stomach, every single time, making him shake, fingers digging into the other man’s spine in a fight with himself to keep buried against the slope of Sylar’s neck. It’s almost absurd, finding safety against someone he never thought he could stand, when the person he keeps trying to protect is himself. However, he knows just as well that trying to hold onto his dignity is a lost cause when Sylar’s steadying hold, the press of his body, is the only thing pushing him into a submission he keeps trying to deny.

Which is exactly when he realizes he’d beg for it if Sylar wanted him to. If the other man asked, demanded, he’d spill himself over between breaths before Sylar could even finish. He already is, wordlessly, spreading himself wider to make room for the other’s grip and waiting with the breath caught in the back of his throat for him to do something. Anything. Anything at all that’s not just slight slip of Sylar’s fingers around his cock because it’s sheer agony, the solid ache making him squirm, muscles twitching and pulling tight, though he’s trying to do anything but. It isn’t enough and he can feel the words just there, riding underneath his skin, but his ego’s too bruised from Sylar’s win to let himself slip up just yet.

And yet he still does, in an entirely different way, free hand making a sharp but almost petulant grab for Sylar's ass. He might not be willing to let words free but he can't keep from touching any better than Sylar can, using his grip to pull Sylar close any way he can. ]

[evolved]

[ Sylar wants to hear it all, every hitch of breath and every word meant for him that Peter doesn't want to speak, and perhaps in hopes of being able to coax more of them from Peter's mouth, he tightens the grip of his fingers and strokes, slowly and firmly and determinedly. Lets Peter know that no limits exist here despite the don't that's embedded in his tone, hesitation and encouragement all the same. When he grabs onto what of Sylar his hands can find, seeking escape from his gaze and his own need against his shoulder in response to his touch, Sylar makes a noise, low in his throat, and rocks his hips forward again. He welcomes the single thrust against his hand, and the groan that escapes Peter's lips, muffled slightly into Sylar's neck has him digging his nails into the skin of Peter's hip where his hand still has a steady hold.

The difference between breaking and submitting is small. He wonders which it'll be for Peter - he can tell that he's cracking, and tearing apart is only Sylar's nature; he's pushing, slipping into those cracks and pulling until Peter's in pieces in his hands. Folded over him, the sudden rough dig of Peter's fingers, being pulled forward and against Peter and almost, almost as close as he'll get pulls a gasp of breath and a growl from Sylar, and he wants this as badly as Peter does, isn't sure how much he'd actually care or if he'd pay any mind to it if Peter didn't. His hand uncurls and slips away from Peter's cock, over the bare thigh hooked against him, and there's a pause, brief, where Sylar brushes a knuckle over the back of Peter's leg before his fingers are touching, right there.

There really is no warning before Sylar is pushing with two dry fingers, forcing them inside and opening him, too quick and too deep.

With Peter's face pressed into the crook of his neck, all he has to do is turn his head and pull back just the slightest bit to bring his mouth close to Peter's ear, and he stays there, still for a breath or two, then dips his head lower, far enough to let his teeth press into the edge of Peter's jaw. There's a shivering threat of a bite before he pulls his mouth away. ]

Say it.

[ It's breathed against Peter's cheek, harshly, and it leaves no room for Peter to deny him anything; it's a demand for Peter to swallow the last of his pride. He knows that Peter will, he's giving all of himself, and it's insane and intoxicatingly addictive and he's so ridiculously hot and tight, clenching around Sylar's fingers when he keeps pushing, roughly slides them inside up to the first knuckle. ] I want to hear it.

[askedtobe]

[ Peter isn't entirely sure how he keeps himself from begging the very second Sylar slips his fingers inside, pressing in painfully deeper. Though it's quite possibly because speaking is equally as much of a sudden impossibility as breathing; even the pained whimper that threatens to spill over gets jammed up in the depths of his throat until Peter's flushing darker from frustration, from submission, from the desperation that’s running rampant through his nerves. And all that's left is the obvious ache hardening between his legs, pressed against the other’s stomach. And Sylar. Because Sylar's always left, he's always been there and he always will be, skin pulsing hot against his own so that it's all Peter can think about, overwhelming his senses until he can't deny any of it. Not anymore.

If Peter could, if he'd let himself ask for it, he'd plead for Sylar to touch him. Anywhere, everywhere else. Until there was nothing left. Sylar's the only person who's ever known how to take him down so readily, has known him inside out in all the wrong ways, and now Peter wants proof of it. Laid out bare beneath him, they’ve always been the perfect enemies and with self-deprecation as his witness, he wants to be disassembled by hands that once tore into him in an entirely different way.

Not altogether surprised by the action in and of itself, Peter is fully aware he had been asked for it, in his own silent way and yet he's refusing to acknowledge his own need for as long as he can get away with. As long as he can't even speak, he can pretend, can pretend the heat digging into the pit of his stomach is defiance and pain and nothing more. Fingers working their way back up Sylar's back as the other man’s bury in deeper, Peter noses in against Sylar's racing pulse that more insistently, finding himself doing nothing but ending up lost in the beat, in the other man's insistent push, the feel of it seeping under his skin.

But it's with a choked huff of breath that he finally snaps, breathing hard against the dip of Sylar's collar just beyond his shirt and gritting out a hard groan through clenched teeth. It isn't fair and Peter wants to scream that it isn't, but it doesn't even matter anymore, how could it? All that matters is that he's abandoned himself in this moment, that Sylar's fingers are a tease, a prologue for something better, and something far more painful at that, and Peter can hardly bring himself to care about anything apart from just how badly he's willing to give it all up. Out of everything, it's purely his own body that's retaliating against the intrusion, muscles clenching and pushing back.

One hand finally pulls away from the path of Sylar's spine, but instantly presses against Sylar's chest, fingers sinking into shirt and digging into the flesh just beneath until Peter's convinced himself he's holding on to something solid. Onto something that could possibly ground him when he’s convinced he’s lost his mind. ]

Sylar, please. [ It sounds wrong even to his own ears, words twisted out of him and agonizingly pleading. Tipping his face toward Sylar’s warm mouth, he blinks his eyes back open, staring unseeing down the line of their bodies until the sight alone makes him writhe, anticipation caught in the space between. If there's anyone in the world he should be saying please to, it's not Sylar, never imagined it'd be Sylar. But there's no one else here except for them, except for the steady, hard press of the other man on top of him and Peter can’t take the time to think it through anymore. Not when he wants more than he can stand. ]

[evolved]

[ What they are is something much more complicated than can be divided into good and evil, more so than it even makes sense to try to figure out. He knows Peter so well it's frightening, far better than he should be allowed to - he can get under his skin like no other, in ways no one else could ever hope to understand. Perhaps this is what it all comes down to, what's been building just beneath the surface of their skin and minds ever since Sylar's jealousy of Peter's potential and Peter's jealousy of Sylar's control was what drove them to reckless bloodshed that ended in death but never actually ended them. Peter gives and Sylar takes, wants everything that he can't have -- they're so very different, polar opposites yet the same in so many ways, and in the end, even if all Sylar does is burn him and rip into him, even if they tear each other apart, he's the one who'll still be there. Still standing, still breathing, still staying and something so constant and real that it hurts.

Sylar allows the desperate clutch of fingers, lets Peter find his handhold, and the way he says his name, the way he pleads -- words that should never leave Peter's mouth spoken in that tone for him, it's enough. He exhales, clenches and unclenches his jaw and twists his fingers, and with Peter's lips that close to his own, he barely has to turn his head further to claim his slightly open mouth between one ragged breath and another in a wet, forceful kiss. He breaks it after merely a couple of seconds, but stays close enough that their lips still brush each time either of them as much as pulls air into their lungs.

He hasn't stretched Peter nearly enough when he withdraws his fingers and leaves him empty, shifts his weight and pushes him down into the floor, flat on his back. The feeling of wrong is chased through Sylar like a shiver, but nothing is too wrong or too dark or broken, not for him, and he stays pressed flush against Peter still, heavy and dangerous, his spine one long curve and his hands warm over the too hot skin of Peter's sides. They slide up along his waist and past his ribs only to pull away a moment later; a palm is pressed to the ground to support his weight while the fingers of his other hand fold around the back of Peter's thigh, pulling the leg he doesn't have hooked around him already against his side, and he doesn't have the patience to waste time. Not even a short second's pause, thick with tension, for either of them to think a single thought.

With a long shift of his hips, he's pushing, all blunt pressure of his cock until the resistance of those tight muscles gives and he can force his way past them, inside, into Peter, and he's too tight, so tight that it hurts Sylar and it pulls a low, breathless groan from him, pushed from his lungs and past gritted teeth. He's panting against Peter's mouth and it's obscene, too rough, there's too much friction, but he thrusts nonetheless, further erasing and blurring the edges where he ends and Peter begins until neither of them will know anymore, a reckless shove that gets him too deep, buried inside Peter to the hilt. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Why Sylar has to be Peter's constant is something he wishes he could understand. Wishes he could tear apart until he could find the explanation just lying in wait, as if it even existed in the first place. But he knows it doesn't, just like he knows there's no explanation for destiny or the future, or how he always has to change the way things are supposed to be. But this, this he's never been able to change, though he's tried harder than he even knows how to. Tried to change Sylar, tried to change himself, tried to fix the world as it crumbled under their feet. He's tried to make this be something else than feeling the pounding of Sylar's heart underneath his palm and the combined twisting of their beings until they've succumbed to this moment. And it's as simple as that. He's succumbed to the one thing he knows he shouldn't, but Peter already knew he was broken, he just didn't think he could make it any worse.

For a fleeting moment, when it hurts too much, Peter starts to shove at Sylar. Press back to try to take some of the edge off, but after another second his tactic shifts and he's scrambling to get himself closer. To do something to make it stop hurting, the heat raging underneath his skin, holding his breath hostage and pulling his muscles too tight a perfect explanation of everything wrong with this. But being crammed up against the floor, there's nowhere to go, and so he's shaking, twitching as the wrong kind of heat rips through him and he cries out just because there's nothing else he can do, head tipped back and turned away in an escapists final act of desperation.

He can feel it, all of his anger splitting under the wire, until there's nothing left of it, replaced by things that Peter can't put a name to. Or simply won't. Because the only thing he can call it is Sylar, filling him to core, bringing him to disassembly. No matter what else he wants to call it though, it hurts, aches in a wholly different way from the ache reminding him of his own arousal pulsing agonizingly hard between his legs. Which he can't even spare much of a second thought to at the moment, not when Sylar's thrusting and Peter's catching his own words under his breath that don't make any sense past groans and obscenities and twisted sounds of a need for it to be something other than pain.

Peter thinks that even if he told Sylar to take it slow, it wouldn't do a single thing to offer himself a reprieve, and might simply make it worse. Might drag the pain out until he'd truly lose his mind and all Peter wants is to get through this part, to get to the next chapter where it isn't supposed to hurt nearly as much. Forcing hard breaths through lungs that are still uninterested in cooperating, Peter's nearly choking on the moment, trying to curl in tighter around Sylar with legs locked at his sides, pressed against muscle that shifts with every thrust, drawing a hard shudder up through Peter's spine until his shoulders are quaking with it. Every sound of Sylar's hits him that much harder until Peter isn't sure who's making what, and who's breathing whose strangled air, and who's skin is burning just that much hotter.

Trying to get a grip on the moment is a lost cause and Peter knows he's lost all sense of control, nosing up under the line of Sylar's jaw when the other buries into him all over again. Pained noises ground out from between clenched teeth, Peter's hand is at Sylar's hip, fingers seemingly invested on working their way in between their bodies, though there's not even room for a whisper. It's obvious the direction they're going and yet Peter's still somehow captivated by the shift of muscle under Sylar's skin, the ache only spreading beneath his own. He's spent so long telling himself that Sylar's nothing but a monster, nothing but a lost cause, that this is is infinitely more real than it should be now that he knows so different. And yet Peter's folding to it, sacrificing himself to one of the only things he has and slipping another darkened whimper against Sylar's throat, trying to keep from touching when it's Sylar who's taken him whole. ]